Demiurge or Biological Urge?

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Alastair Sim, Alistair Ross, Anglocentric, Article 26, biological urge, Board of Governors, Brittanic Celtic language, Cloacae, Conchita Wurst, cultural norms, demiurge, Furry Dance, geiger counter, Gwer, hirsutism, Institute for Policy Studies in Education, Kernowek, Lapsang, London Metropolitan University, minority communities, model railway club, national minority group, nepotism, pasty, phoenix, piskey, pluralism, positive discrimination, scubmaw, St Endellion Festival, Tate St Ives, The Beatles, tin mining, Universal Declaration of Human Rights

Hmm, it’s interesting that Geoffrey Poskett has got nowhere in his application

for the Headship and he is a Yorkshireman, said Dru.  It was her free afternoon

and she was sharing her thoughts with her mother and Sonia in Royalist

House .

What’s that got to do with it? asked Sonia.

Everything, replied Dru.  You see, various institutions, even in the independent

sector, feel that they are not attracting enough staff from minority

communities.

Yorkshiremen- or should I say Yorkshire people?- form a fairly large

gene pool, remarked Sonia.  I should think that his rejection is more

likely to be down to ageism, rather than Lancastrian bias.

Well, you’ll never guess who has been put on the short-list? Dru teased.

Go on, I’ll never guess, said her mother.  Not that young chap who sang

in the concert?

You’ve got it! Dru was perturbed to be in competition with Nigel.  She

twisted the gold harp on its chain-the one he had sent her after their

performance.  His name is Nigel Milford-Haven.

He looked about nineteen! Diana expostulated.  But, then again, I think

all young men do and not just members of law enforcement agencies.

Nigel is their ideal candidate, said Dru ruefully.  You see, he is half Cornish

and half Welsh.

Presumably his father was Welsh with a surname like Milford-Haven? Diana

deducted.

I assume so.  He said something about going to his mother’s house when

he was at the St Endellion Festival-the holiday when he had to paint her

bathroom!

He is tres gentil, but Father hinted that his classroom management

leaves a lot to be desired.  She hoped that she was not being disloyal.

Sounds like he’s in with a chance then, remarked a jaded Diana.  It was often

those who couldn’t teach who sought promotion out of the classroom.

Well, he is offering extra curricular skills, such as ‘manning’- and I use the

term deliberately- the model railway club.  Even the boys are not allowed to

lay a finger on the locomotives.  To tell you the truth, we have exchanged

views on our joint success thus far.  The poor guy is mortified to be

standing against me, yet thinks nepotism may rule the day, whereas I

think the Board of Governors will be very careful about my having put

myself forward while Father is Acting Head.  I expect that they are

worried that I might accept the post and then go off on triple maternity

leave!

Well, it would serve them right if you did! said Sonia.  I think you should

get pregnant immediately!  After all, she remarked a little unkindly, you are

leaving things rather late.  Let me look at your tea leaves and I’ll see if there

is anyone in the offing.

Dru blushed.  She had drained her Lapsang and Sonia was becoming

excited.

I think a nice young man may be appearing on your horizon very soon.

Great timing! replied Dru.  You wait for a decade or so and then he

materialises just as you are attempting to further your career.

Anyway, Nigel is sure to be the victor.  To be Cornish is to be recognised as

hailing from a national minority group.  He will probably put the Furry Dance

in the School Assembly.  Pluralism is all nowadays.  Article 26 of the Universal

Declaration of Human Rights, 1948, advocates it. Positive discrimination is

the order of the day.

There was a reference in the press to a paper by Alistair Ross from some

Institute for Policy Studies in Education at London Metropolitan University,

Diana agreed.

What did it say? asked Dru.

Wait!  I’ll find it in the re-cycling basket.  She disappeared into the utility

room and returned triumphant.  It poses the question: does it matter if the

teaching profession reflects the ethnic composition of society or not?  He

thinks it does.

Dru looked as if she thought that the powers-that-be would concur.

Nigel will be seen to bring to his work a variant set of cultural norms,

appropriate for the diverse multi-cultural population of England.  He will

reflect that range in his subconscious behaviour and attitudes, as they

stipulate.

Oh, stuff and nonsense! said Sonia.  Forget the subconscious!  And that is

coming from me as a retired Headmistress and a clairvoyant!  It is what you

consciously transmit that is important in the classroom.  Children don’t

analyse your subconscious, except to detect weakness when you say or

threaten something that you really do not intend to carry out.  We always

used to talk about flagging things up.  Making things explicit.  ‘Do that once

again and you will be waiting behind after school, sort of thing.’  They didn’t

need a geiger counter to pick up our meaning.

Now their mothers refuse to let you detain them, said Dru.  Parents have

to do the school run and pick up younger siblings at other establishments.

They refuse to be delayed. One has very few sanctions.

That’s the whole problem, stated Sonia.  But there aren’t any Cornish

children at St Birinus Middle, are there?  So whom would Nigel be

representing?

He is to make a stand against racism.  Some children were heard calling him

The Pasty and The Piskey, as well as using his main moniker: Caligula, which

isn’t Cornish, obviously. 

You see, said Sonia.  if you forbid one thing, they will just adapt their

impertinence.

The plan is to change some of the signage in school to reflect the status of

the Cornish language, Dru broke in, and to teach them respect for other

cultures.

The canteen are offering Hoggan and Scubmaw on Thursdays and Pesk on

Fridays. The Geography teacher is formulating a module on tin mining and

the Art teacher is taking a little trip to Tate St Ives.

Surely that is discriminatory against Tate  Liverpool? argued Diana.

Apparently not.  That department justified its choice by stressing that

Scouse culture had been over-represented in the past.  The kids had all

heard of The Beatles, clarified Dru. 

But Kernowek, the South Western Brittanic Celtic language was

extinct by the nineteenth century, Diana added.  Mind you, they still

teach Latin.  Maybe they could put up some Classical language signs-

you know, ‘Cloacae’!

Oh, no doubt that would be to represent any families who descend from

Roman deserters who jumped the wall and ran off with local girls, I

suppose? Sonia said cynically.

Yes, well, they want minority languages resurrected like phoenixes, Dru

pointed out. They have already added a sign on the door to the Gents’,

saying: Gwer Privedhyow.

Hmm, Sonia said.  Maybe phoenix  is the current buzzword.  If you grew

a beard you might represent something like that Eurovision person.  You

could stand for all gender variations. You’ve actually got a little bit of a

moustache already!

Dru ran a finger over her upper lip.  It wasn’t that noticeable, was it?

She still intended to turn up for the interview day.  Nigel had better

not exploit the agenda by claiming to object to Anglocentric

curriculae.

He had been taken seriously.  So had she.  But she did hope that

she wouldn’t be confused with Conchita Wurst, in spite of hirsutism

raising its stubble.  There had been headmistresses in the past who

favoured drag- Alastair Sim, for one, but she hoped that she could be

rise to the top of the greasy pole in her own merits, and without

gender being an issue.  And it wasn’t a lap dancing pole.

She suddenly wondered if she could conceive, or whether the moustache

might be a sign that she should heed Time’s winged chariot.

Was the expression of biological urge more important than the desire

for a role as demiurge?  Maybe she and Nigel should dispense with the

Platonic and get a life together?  Or make lives together?

 

Bingo!

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Andrew Graham-Dixon, Baltic cruise, Basingstoke, Beam me up.., bingo, Bradford on Avon, Bridge, Bridge Mints, Catherine the Great, cribbage, Dame Edna, David Cameron, deviation, Estonia, Faberge, fly fishing, geophysicist, George Clooney, George Osborne, hesitation, Inner Hebrides, ISA, Jeremy Paxman, Kit-Kat, Knights in White Satin, Lamborghini, Madge, Martini, Missing Amber Room, Neil Oliver, Nick Clegg, pasty, Poleconomy, Potemkin, Putin, religious affairs broadcaster, repetition, St Petersburg, Tallinn, The Hermitage, Tuck shop, Waldemar Janusczak, White Nights, Winter Palace

Diana Fotheringay-Syylk was feeling like the fishy guest who putrefies after

three days.  Not that Sonia had hinted that she had a sudden need to reclaim

her spare rooms, but it was just that both women required their own space.

Diana felt that it was a bit like sharing The Winter Palace with Catherine the

Great, and it sometimes felt like a similar temperature too.

Diana’s estate agent was frantically sending her texts, reporting on the

positive viewings on her cottage in Bradford-on-Avon.  Prospective buyers

adored the quaint windows- as far as she could recall there were none.

Couples loved its tranquil position in a quiet village.  ‘Bustling town‘ was how

she would have described its location.  And why did they mention the river

after the worst flooding in a century?  She was in an elevated position and

hadn’t had a teaspoonful of groundwater in her cellar.  So far there had

been no second viewings.  Still, it wasn’t Easter yet.

Sonia kept wanting to play Cribbage, Bridge or a variety of Bingo every

evening.  Diana didn’t care for these games and would have been happy to

provide the canapes for the occasion, if only George Osborne, or

Nick Clegg could have dropped by, so that she could sit the session out, like

some kind of Madge to Edna’s grande dame.  She had a sneaking

suspicion that Sonia would have eaten the politicians up as efficiently as

she disposed of a box of Bridge Mints and that she would probably have

preferred Potemkin to drop by unannounced for a game of Poleconomy.

Apparently the Chancellor and the Deputy PM love Bingo– so much so that

they were right behind tax reductions of 50% on the game. (David Cameron

was less enthusiastic. He prefers a night in with a pasty.)

Just as well that Sonia had given up driving, after she embedded her car in the

frontage of Costamuchamoulah, must-seen cafe.  Otherwise she might have

been tempted to cash in her annuities to purchase a Lamborghini to roar up

High Street.

Diana could imagine other old biddies, such as Ginevra, being all too keen to

make a black hole in their pension funds in order to subsidise a Martini habit,

or worse.

It wouldn’t take too many cashed-in ISAs to buy a toy boy and it would

probably be more short term fun than having to fund an Eastern European

carer.

Diana was beginning to realise that she wasn’t as young as she had been.  She

had been planning a Sagbag cruise to somewhere culturally interesting, such as

St Petersburg.  It would have been something to look forward to after the

house sale and removal stresses.  She quite fancied listening to some minor

celebrity rabbiting on about Faberge eggs, or leaning over the deck rail with a

George Osborne lookalike..(No, she meant Clooney, surely?), night after White

Night, or Knight after White Knight, not necessarily in white satin, or even

statins.

Now Putin had put paid to that Baltic fantasy.

Really someone should put the ‘Ras‘ back into his name.  She held him

personally responsible for preventing her from viewing The Hermitage.  How

one small man could spoil everything was very irritating.  If he had been a

pupil in her class, she would have told him not to be so greedy.  The lion’s

share was not his to grab.  She would have made him put it back and go to

the end of the queue.

He would have to have said, Thank you, Mrs Fotheringay-Syylk, with no

repetition, hesitation, or deviation.  And if she had detected any hint of

sarcasm or impertinence in his tone, then he would have been the last to

leave the classroom and may have even had to stay behind to help her

tidy up Lost Property. (But how do you tidy up Crimea?)

Sanctions!  She knew all about them.  Charging round the hockey pitch

twenty times would have sorted him out.  As for the Tuck Shop– out of

bounds till the end of term!  Or maybe till the end of time.

She absent-mindedly bent down to pick up the mail from the doormat.

There were two letters, both addressed to herself.

There was an envelope stamped with the estate agent’s logo.

She ripped it open. She was being offered a record price for the cottage!

Bingo!  Drusilla had been right.  It had flown away.

She opened the other missive.  It was from Sagbag Cruises and included a

published list of floating lectures.  Geophysicists, Religious Affairs

Broadcasters….

Where was Bendor Grosvenor?  That was what she wanted to know.

Maybe he didn’t do Sagbag. What about Neil Oliver?

Oh, wow!  Waldemar Janusczak on The Missing Amber Room.  A cruise to

Tallinn. Sign me up, Scotty! she screamed.  I’m definitely going for that one,

whether he was born in Basingstoke, or not.  I must ask Drusilla if she wants

to go too.  I mean to Estonia, not Basingstoke.  Imagine sailing round all those

roundabouts!  You’d feel seasick!

I can’t understand why Dru prefers Andrew Graham-Dixon.  He showed himself

up on University Challenge.  No, even Jeremy Paxman giving his fly-fishing tips

on a nautical jaunt round the Inner Hebrides isn’t as good as Waldemar on a

Kit-Kat wrapper.

And by the look of the price offered for my erstwhile humble abode, I can

treat my dear daughter too.

By George-bingo!